


spin cycles

by jackgyeoms



Category: The Maze Runner Series - James Dashner
Genre: Enemies to Lovers, Fluff, Getting Together, Laundry, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-20
Updated: 2015-03-20
Packaged: 2018-03-18 19:18:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3580896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jackgyeoms/pseuds/jackgyeoms
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"you left your clothes in the washing machine for too long so i took them out and you caught me" au</p>
<p>gally and thomas are enemies, until they're not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	spin cycles

**Author's Note:**

> written for [thomineho](http://thomineho.tumblr.com) who wanted thomally fighting leading to kissing.
> 
> beta'd by [shepardings](http://shepardings.tumblr.com)

 

The spin cycled once and then jittered to a stop. Gally squinted at it, then let his eyes slip towards the doorway – empty – and back again. Was it unreasonable to have expected the owner to appear out of nowhere to gather his things? Gally thought about this, eyes peering into his own washing basket. Nope. Not unreasonable at all.

He tapped his fingers on the rim of the basket impatiently. Without the rumble of the washing machine, it stood out starkly. He squirmed. Left foot. He glanced towards the door, still empty. Right foot. Left foot. He counted to three a few times in his head, as if the numbers were a magical summoning spell. Right foot.

Gally snapped. He grumbled with irritation, and his footfalls stomped as he closed the distance between himself and the washing machine. He dropped his basket on top of a neighbouring washer that trembled from the force of doing its job. With the one that had stopped, he yanked the door open, and reached in to gather the sopping clothes. He held them just away from his chest and paused, wondered whether it was appropriate to just drop them on the floor. He eyed the space by his feet considering.

A floorboard squeaked, and saved him from having to make the decision. Gally looked up. His expression set. No. Not him.

It wasn’t that Gally hated Thomas. No, that wouldn’t make any sense. Although they lived across the hall from each other, they had never actually conversed properly, but there had always been animosity between them from the very day that Gally had moved into the Glade. He’d been moving in and Thomas had come out to introduce himself, insisted on helping even when Gally told him firmly about a hundred times that he didn’t need help, and then kindly put his foot through one of Gally’s oil paintings. It had been his favourite. The fact that Thomas had lived longer than that moment showed that Gally’s anger management sessions were actually working. Ava had been beside herself.

Since then, there had been snarky comments, glaring wars, insults, too loud parties, three fires, and a fist sized hole in the wall of the hallway. Gally would not be held responsible for that one. He’d only asked the little shit to stop leaving his garbage where Gally was going to trip over it. It was Thomas’ lack of cooperation that had led to the damage of public property.

Now, they stood and looked at each other as if it were some strange standoff in an old western. Gally held the garments as if they were his shield, back straight and eyes narrowed. Thomas’ hands were stiff at his sides, faces contorted into something akin to distaste. There was a long silence, and then Thomas said –

“Are those my clothes?”

Gally’s eyes darted into his arms. Now that he was looking closer, he could see the crude lined drawing of females. He should have recognised it. He stubbornly refused to answer, raised his head to meet Thomas’ gaze.

“What, you couldn’t wait five minutes?”

“Some people have better things to do than to wait around for you,” Gally retorted automatically. He shoved Thomas’ clothes towards him roughly, kind of enjoying the way that Thomas stumbled under the suddenness of it, hands moving quickly to hold everything. The leg on a pair of jeans slipped over his arm, and a sock fell heavy to the floor. It was oddly satisfying.

Thomas huffed. “What’s your problem?”

Gally bit back the urge to answer childishly. ‘You are’. Wouldn’t make anything better. He pressed his lips together just in case. He tipped his wash load from the basket, using his hands as a scoop, and tried to ignore the way that eyes were burning into the back of his neck.

If anything, the lack of reply just succeeded in irritating Thomas further. He clutched the clothes to his chest, almost protectively, as if defending them from him, as he said, “you have no right to touch my stuff”. He was right, of course, but only technically and it wasn’t as if Gally was about to agree with him aloud.

Instead, he rolled his eyes. “You were taking too long.”

“Well, then you should have waited,” Thomas snapped, and turned to put the clothes in the carrier he had – Gally hadn’t missed the empty hamper left at the side of the machine. “It’s rude to empty someone’s washing machine.”

In response, Gally retorted, “It’s rude to leave your clothes in the shared machine. It’s not proper washer etiquette.”

Thomas’ arms flailed around him indignantly. “There’s no such thing as proper washer etiquette!”

He was frustrated, worked up, becoming irrational and it made Gally want to smirk. It felt like winning.

“Just because you don’t use it, doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist,” he snarked.

“It _doesn’t_ exist,” Thomas snapped, frustrated.

“It’s called common sense,” Gally bit back, “something that you clearly don’t have.”

Thomas breathed out a furious sound, and then fell into silence. Perhaps he couldn’t think of a reply, or was too irked to continue, but Gally took it as a sign of success and turned away to reach for his detergents. Of course, that didn’t mean that it was over.

“You’re an arsehole you know that,” Thomas told him, frowning. Gally pretended to think it over and shrugged, didn’t answer. That only seemed to give the other man more reason to keep talking. “I mean, you’ve been a grade A bastard since we met. I’ve been here three years, three years, and I can get on with everyone in this damn place, except for you. What’s your deal with me? Huh? Do you even have a reason?”

“I have a list,” Gally said bluntly, folded his arms across his chest. It made him look bigger, stronger, people tended to shield away from him then. Not Thomas though. He just puffed out his chest, as if that suddenly made them even. “Want me to recite it? Let’s start with the nerf guns.”

Thomas snorted, shook his head, “It was barely a graze.”

“And the fire.”

“That wasn’t my fault. Chuck was the one that was cooking!”

“What about the second time, or the third?”

“Irrelevant. Accidents.” Thomas waved his hand dismissively.

Gally growled, gestured to it. “And that. That thing you do. Making it seem as if you’re better than everyone else. As if it doesn’t matter what we think or what we say, because you know what’s right.”

Thomas’ eyes narrowed. “What are you talking about?”

Gally was angry now. He counted to ten a few times in his head, knew that helped, and his muscles bunched as he forced himself to keep his hands were they were and not wrap them around the idiots neck. It worked to an extent, but there was nothing stopping the words now. “You don’t even know? Are you serious shank? Fuck, just – you just don’t listen. Like when we first met.”

“I was trying to _help_.”

“I didn’t _need_ your help.”

“It’s good manners, you’re all about those aren’t you?” He said it was if the words were an insult.

“I told you I was fine. _You_ didn’t listen. Then look what happened.”

Gally thought mournfully about that painting. His favourite. He’d had a spot picked out for it and everything. He hadn’t been able to throw it away. It was behind his other canvas’ now, half way hidden behind his wardrobe just to block the gaping hole that declared it ruined.

Something clicked visibly in Thomas’ eyes and his eyebrows angled downwards to match his mouth.

“Wait, you’re telling me this was all because of some stupid ass painting?” Thomas exclaimed as if he couldn’t believe, “a painting that wasn’t even good in the first place?”

The words stung more than Gally wanted to admit, and he found himself grinding his teeth and biting back with harsh truths. “It was my grandmother’s. The last thing she painted before she died and I loved that painting.  But of course, why would that be important to me when it doesn’t concern you?”

Thomas seemed to deflate, eyes wide and blinking. The sight drained Gally of his energy, and all he wanted to do was slump in defeat. He didn’t though, he just let his shoulders drop and sighed heavily.

“I didn’t know…”

“Yeah, well, why should you?” Gally replied, tone harsh but voice quiet.

The silence dragged until Gally couldn’t take it anymore. He shook his head, reached for his basket and muttered something about coming back later, when Thomas wasn’t there. When Gally had had the chance to right himself and return to a point where he didn’t want to break the man’s face. A hand wrapped around his wrist, and Gally followed it up to the face of the person it belonged to. Thomas had this weird look on his face – okay, wasn’t saying much because Thomas always had a weird look on his face, but this one was different from the others Gally had noted. It was all concentrated in his eyes, this look of strong internal debate that Gally’s irritation at being stopped was almost replaced with the feeling of curiosity.

He wasn’t curious for long, because no sooner had Gally began to wonder, Thomas reared up determinately until their lips met. It was forceful, wet, sloppy, lacked finesse, and it made Gally’s body shiver. That stumped him. He wasn’t living as a nun, he’d dated, had nights drunk off lust and booze, but it had been a long time since a kiss had done that to him. His lips twitched, a want to respond that he didn’t follow through with. Thomas pulled back slowly after a few moments, cheeks blotched pink and amber eyes shining. His face was laxed, with nerves pulling at the edges to ruin the façade. Gally wondered how he looked.

“What was that?” he questioned.

Thomas didn’t release his hold on Gally’s wrist. “An apology,” Thomas informed, “And something I’ve been wanting to do for a long time.”

Gally echoed the words numbly.

Thomas nodded once in answer, and added. “Apparently not even your wonderful personality was enough to deter me.” It was said like a joke to break the tension. Gally wondered whether he should laugh. He didn’t.

Thomas waited. Watched, as if judging Gally’s reaction. He was tempted to ask what he saw because honestly, Gally didn’t know how to deal with that. So he didn’t say anything, turned away, placed the detergent into the washer and turned to leave. He slipped from Thomas’ hold ease, the skin feeling cold where it had once had heat. He picked up the empty basket, put it under his arm and walked away without looking back. He pretended his lips weren’t still tingling.

*

The washing machine took an hour and thirty six minutes to finish the load. Gally made sure to head down five minutes earlier than he normally would. He was never more than a minute behind the load on those off days, but today he would not give Thomas the pleasure of knowing that he didn’t even abide to the rules that he’d complained about Thomas not using. The memory brought a falter to his step.

Gally had spent the time trying not to think about it, which had been harder than he had expected. If there was one thing he had become good at, it was being stubborn. But this once, his stubbornness failed him.  It didn’t matter how resolutely he told himself that he was not going to think about Thomas or anything that happened down in the laundry room, his brain seemed persistent in its desire for Gally to do just that.

He thought about how good it was arguing with Thomas, the way that he actually enjoyed making the man lose his control.  He enjoyed the way that Thomas flushed, the way that his voice rose a few octaves as if that would help get the point across; the way that his eyes lit up and his nostrils flared in irritation. He thought about the kiss, and the fact that it took fifteen minutes and a tub of lip balm across the cracked edges before his lips stopped feeling so sensitive. The way that his body had frozen, startled into stillness, and yet still shuddered with the pleasure. The way that he had wanted to kiss back, that if he hadn’t managed to stop himself that he would have pulled Thomas closer, kissed him until he couldn’t breathe.

He thought about how much that thought scared him and thrilled him in equal measure.

When Gally walked past Thomas’ door, innocuous and yet dangerous, he refused to look towards it.

The washer silenced as he entered, and Gally let out a breath of relief that the room was empty. He wasn’t sure what he would have done if Thomas had been there.

_Kissed him._

_Shut up brain._

Gally forced the thought away again, focused determined on the task at hand. He crossed the expanse of the room in three strides and hooked his fingers around the rim of the door. And stopped. Paper, lined and folded unevenly in the middle, was cellotaped down. His name stared up at him. Gally stared back.

He knew who it was from. No one else had seen him use this machine. It had to be him. Gally’s stomach did a flip. Like the door, the paper sat easily with no idea of what weight it held. It took him a few minutes to bring himself to reach for it, peeling the tape away slowly, and even longer to actually read it.

**_I’M NOT SORRY I KISSED YOU, BUT I AM SORRY IF YOU DIDN’T WANT ME TO._ **

It wasn’t signed, but then, who else was it going to be? Gally thought about this being left unguarded, wondered how long for.  The thought of someone else reading this made Gally hold it tighter, the edges of the pages crumpling under it. It made him want to hold the thing to his chest, close and private and his, and he peered around suspiciously as if a nosy neighbour – probably Minho, it was always Minho – would suddenly emerge from the walls to mock him for this.

His eyes returned to the page. Thomas didn’t have a neat scrawl – he had seen the scraps of paper containing notes to himself that the man had dropped moving to and from his apartment. Gally always made a big deal out of it. He wasn’t quite sure why – but for this, it was like he made an affect. Each word capitalised and placed with care just to ensure that the message came across. He wanted to trace them, and pulled a face at the thought.

Yes, he was stubborn, but he wasn’t stupid. Clearly he was trying to tell himself something. Gally sighed heavily, and tilted his head up towards the ceiling, closed his eyes. Gravity pulled on his neck pleasantly. He stood like this for a moment, listening to himself breathe, feeling the steadily retracting warmth from the washer slip away from his calf muscles. When his eyelids rose, he had accepted.

He folded the paper carefully, straightened the mucked up line that Thomas had left, and slide it into his pocket. It burnt a hole as he moved his clothes from the washer to the dryer. Strangely, it was a good kind of burn.

*

The spin cycled once and then jittered to a stop. Gally watched it for a long moment. The owner didn’t suddenly appear out of nowhere, and he tapped a discontented beat onto the side of his basket. He repeated it three times before waiting became too much.

He made determined steps forward, dropped his own basket heavily on the neighbouring machine. The door protested the rough treatment when it was opened, and he dragged the wet clothes into his chest. One shirt stood out among the mass, and Gally breathed out heavily, knowing. He hesitated, considered letting them litter the floor, a strange punishment in his eyes, but forwent the idea almost instantly and began to pile them beside his own basket.

The floorboard creaked, and Gally paused, glanced up from what he was doing.

Amber eyes stared back. Gally blinked but didn’t look away.

It had been over a week since he had actually seen Thomas. He wasn’t sure whether it was coincidence or if effort was put into avoiding him, but he had tried not to let it irritate him. Sometimes he heard his voice in the hall, or Newt brought him into some story that he was telling over drinks the day before, as if just to remind him that Thomas was still there.

He had wondered whether this would happen again, if he went back to the laundry room at the same time. Hadn’t let himself dwell on it for too long though, less he become obsessed with the idea. That tended to ensure that it would never happen. But now, standing in front of him, Gally wasn’t entirely sure what to do with himself.

Thomas’ eyes darted to the clothes and back again. “What, you couldn’t wait like five minutes?”

“I have better things to do than wait around for you,” Gally echoed back, but this time, allowed a small smile to pass his lips.

Thomas looked as if he were trying not to smile back. “It’s rude to take my clothes out of the washer without my permission.”

“It’s bad manners to leave your clothes in the washer. Bad etiquette.”

“There’s no such thing as washer etiquette,” Thomas informed him with an exasperated sigh.

Gally shook his head. “There definitely is,” he assured, and then after a pause added, “I’ll teach you it, if you want.”

He tried not to visibly wince. _I’ll teach you._ God. _If you want._ What was wrong with him? He thought back to a few months ago, when Ben was telling him that it was a good thing that _people are attracted to the whole power dominance thing you have going on, because serious, your pick up lines suck._ Was it a pick up line though? Probably. Gally wondered whether he should have rehearsed, maybe that would have made this smoother.

Thomas looked at him strangely, his nose wrinkled just slightly. He did that when he was thinking. Gally asked himself when he started paying that much attention to Thomas’ face. He had to look away from it, because there was no way he could continue if he did.

“Maybe after dinner,” he said loudly, too loudly. The word sat like lead in the air. In the pile of clothes, Gally’s hand was hidden when it tightened into a fist.

Thomas squinted at him. “Are you…asking me out?”

Hearing the words, the reality of the situation Gally supposed, brought a flush to the back of his neck. He wished he could reach up and touch it, but that would mean letting go and that seemed worse, so he just held them tighter and tried not to duck his head too noticeably.

“I suppose,” he grumbled the response. Risked a look, and Thomas was smiling slightly. Genuinely this time.

“Does this mean you forgive me?” he asked.

Gally thought of his grandmother’s painting and the hours spent in the cold when flames licked too dangerously, the spat words and the bruise that stupid nerf gun dart had given him. He thought of Thomas’ face when he was angry, the dips of his voice, the moles on his cheeks, the way his lips were curved right now when he smiled and how much Gally wished to kiss them again.

“No,” he answered honestly, “But it means I’m ready to accept an apology.”

(Next Saturday, Thomas cooked dinner, burnt through the chicken and uncooked the potatoes. Gally spilt red white down the front of Thomas’ white shirt. Next Sunday, Gally woke up in Thomas’ bed, their modesty shielded by only the sheets and that ruined shirt. He kissed his forehead in secret affection. Thomas sighed sleepily, snuggling closer but not waking up, and Gally felt truly glad.)

 

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading :)
> 
> i have tumblr: [padfcts](http://gladers.co.vu)


End file.
